“Bless him, no,” said Victoria, poking her finger into a dimple—for he was smiling at her. “What if he does?” and forthwith she seized him in her arms and bore him to the porch, amidst the laughter of those who beheld her, and sat him down on her knee in front of the lemonade bowl, the tired mother beside her. “Will a little lemonade hurt him? Just a very, very little, you know?”
“Why, no, ma'am,” said the mother.
“And just a teeny bit of cake,” begged Victoria, daintily breaking off a piece, while the baby gurgled and snatched for it. “Do tell me how old he is, and how many more you have.”
“He's eleven months on the twenty-seventh,” said the mother, “and I've got four more.” She sighed, her eyes wandering back to the embroidery. “What between them and the housework and the butter makin', it hain't easy. Be you married?”
“No,” said Victoria, laughing and blushing a little.
“You'll make a good wife for somebody,” said the woman. “I hope you'll get a good man.”
“I hope so, too,” said Victoria, blushing still deeper amidst the laughter, “but there doesn't seem to be much chance of it, and good men are very scarce.”
“I guess you're right,” said the mother, soberly. “Not but what my man's good enough, but he don't seem to get along, somehow. The farm's wore out, and the mortgage comes around so regular.”
“Where do you live?” asked Victoria, suddenly growing serious.
“Fitch's place. 'Tain't very far from the Four Corners, on the Avalon road.”